The Evening Encampment—Treachery.
So much time had been lost in this mute kind of conversation, that the
night was fast approaching, and Sir Patrick saw that he must now come
to a speedy decision. The plan suggested by the guide seemed to be the
best that could be followed, under all the circumstances, and he at
once determined to adopt it. At the same time, he by no means relished
this division of his forces, and, remembering the caution he had
received from Duncan MacErchar, he called Mortimer Sang aside, and gave
him very particular injunctions to be on the alert, and to take care
that his people kept a sharp watch over the mountaineer who was to
guide them, and to be sure to environ him in such a manner as to make
it impossible for him to dart off on a sudden, and leave them in the
dark, in the midst of these unknown deserts. Had they once safely
arrived at the green spot, where there was a temporary, though
uninhabited, hunting-hut, and plenty of grass for the horses, he had no
fear of his being able to join them with the page next morning; for the
trough of the glen was so direct between the two points where they were
separately to spend the night, that it was impossible to mistake the
way from the one to the other. Mortimer Sang engaged to prevent all
chance of the savage mountaineer escaping. He produced from one of the
baggage-horses a large wallet, containing provisions enough for the
whole party, which the good and mindful Master Duncan MacErchar had
provided for them, altogether unknown to Hepborne. From it he took some
cakes, cheese, butter, and other eatables, with a small flask filled
from the host’s stoup of spirits; these were added to their guide’s
burden of the flesh of the wild bisons they had slain; and, bidding one
another God speed, the party, under Sang, with one of the Celts, and
all the dogs, departed to pursue their long and weary way.
Maurice de Grey had sat all this while on the ground, very much
exhausted; and when he arose to proceed he had become so stiff that
Hepborne began to be alarmed for him. The poor boy, however, no sooner
remarked the unhappy countenance of his master than he made an attempt
to rouse himself to exertion, and, approaching the edge of the
precipice, he commenced his descent after the guide, with tottering and
timid steps, dropping from one pointed rock to another, and steadying
himself from time to time as well as he could by means of his lance, as
he quivered on the precarious footing the rough sides of the cliffs
afforded. The height was sufficiently terrific when contemplated from
above; but, as they descended, the depth beneath them seemed to be
increased, rather than diminished, by the very progress they had made.
It grew upon them, and became more and more awful at every step. The
crags, too, hung over their heads, as if threatening to part from their
native mountains, as myriads had done before, and to crush the
exhausted travellers into nothing beneath their ruins. They went down
and down, but the lake and the bottom of the valley appeared still to
recede from them. The way became more hazardous. To have looked up or
down would have required the eye and the head of a chamois. A
projecting ledge increased the peril of the path, and the page, tired
to death, and giddy from the terrific situation he saw himself fixed
in, clung to a point of the rock, and looked in Hepborne’s face,
perfectly unable to proceed or to utter a word. There he remained,
panting as if he would have expired. The knight was filled with
apprehension lest the boy should faint and fall headlong down, and the
guide was so much in advance as to be beyond lending his assistance, so
that he alone could give aid to the page. Yet how was he to pass the
boy, so as to put himself in a position where he could assist him? He
saw the path re-appearing from under the projecting ledge, a little to
one side of the place where the page hung in awful suspense, and,
taking one instantaneous glance at it, he leaped boldly downwards. He
vibrated for a moment on the brink; and his feet having dislodged a
great loose fragment of the rock, it went thundering downwards,
awakening all the dormant echoes of the glen. He caught at a bunch of
heath with both his hands; and he had hardly recovered his equilibrium,
when Maurice de Grey, believing, in his trepidation, that the noise he
had heard announced the fall and destruction of his master, uttered a
faint scream, and dropped senseless from the point of rock he had held
by. Hepborne sprang forward, and caught him in his arms. Afraid lest
the boy might die before he could reach the Sheltering Stone, he
shouted to the guide, and, waving him back, took from him the bottle,
and put it to the page’s lips. The spirits revived him, and he opened
his eyes in terror, but immediately smiled when he saw that Hepborne
was safe.
Sir Patrick now put his left arm around the page’s body, and, swinging
him upwards, seated him on his left shoulder, keeping him firmly there,
whilst, with his right hand, he employed his lance to support and
steady his ticklish steps. The timorous page clasped the neck of his
master with all his energy, and in this way the knight descended with
his burden. Many were the difficulties he had to encounter. In one
place he was compelled to leap desperately over one of the cataracts,
where the smallest slip, or miscalculation of distance, must have
proved the destruction of both. At length he reached the bottom in
safety, and there the page, having recovered from his terror, found
breath to pour forth his gratitude to his master. He now regained his
spirit and strength so much, that he declared himself perfectly able to
proceed over the rough ground that lay between them and the Sheltering
Stone; but Hepborne bore him onwards, until he had deposited him on the
spot where they were destined to halt for the night. The grateful
Maurice threw himself on his knees before the knight, as he was wiping
his manly brow, and embraced his athletic limbs from a feeling of
fervent gratitude for his safety.
Sir Patrick now proceeded to examine the curious natural habitation
they were to be housed in. The fallen crag, which had appeared so
trifling from the lofty elevation whence they had first viewed it, now
rose before them in magnitude so enormous, as almost to appear capable
of bearing a castle upon its shoulders. The mimic copy of it
constructed by the guide furnished an accurate representation of the
mode in which it was poised on the lesser blocks it had fallen upon.
These served as walls to support it, as well as to close in the chamber
beneath; and they were surrounded so thickly with smaller fragments of
debris, that no air or light could penetrate between them, except in
one or two places. On one side there was a narrow passage, of two or
three yards in length, leading inwards between the stones and other
rubbish, and of height sufficient to permit a man to enter without
stooping very much. The space within, dry and warm, was capable of
containing a dozen or twenty people with great ease. It was partially
lighted by one or two small apertures between the stones, and the roof,
formed of the under surface of the great mass of rock, was perfectly
even and horizontal. It presented a most inviting place of shelter, and
it seemed to have been not unfrequently used as such, for in one corner
there was a heap of dried bog-fir, and in another the remains of a
heather-bed.
The mountaineer carefully deposited his burdens within the entrance,
and then set about collecting dry heather and portions of drift-wood,
which he found about the edges of the lake; and he soon brought
together as much fuel as might have kept up a good fire for two or
three days. Having piled up some of it in a heap, he interspersed it
with pieces of the dry bog-fir, and then, groping in his pouch,
produced a flint and steel, with which he struck a light, and soon
kindled up a cheerful blaze. He then began to cut steaks of the flesh
of the wild bison, and when the wood had been sufficiently reduced to
the state of live charcoal, he proceeded to broil them over the embers,
on pieces of green heather plucked and prepared for the purpose.
Meanwhile the knight and the page seated themselves near the fire.
“How fares it with thee now, Maurice?” demanded Sir Patrick kindly, as
he watched the cloud that was stealing over the boy’s fair brow, and
the moisture that was gathering under his long eyelashes, as he sat
with his eyes fixed in a fit of absence upon the ground—“What ails
thee, my boy? Say, dost thou repent thee of thy rashness in having
exchanged the softer duties and lighter labours of a page of dames, for
the toils, dangers and hardships befalling him who followeth the noble
profession of arms? Trust me, thy path hath been flowery as yet,
compared to what thou must expect to meet with. Methinks thou lookest
as if thy spirit had flown homewards, and that it were hovering over
the gay apartment where thy mother and her maidens may be employed in
plying the nimble needle, charged with aureate thread, or sowing pales
upon their gorgeous paraments.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said Maurice de Grey, “my thoughts were but partly
of those at home. Doubtless they have ere this ceased to think of their
truant boy!” He sighed heavily, and tears rolled down his cheeks.
“But why dost thou sigh so?” demanded Sir Patrick, “and what maketh thy
brow to wear clouds upon it, like yonder high and snow-white summit?
and why weepest thou like yonder mountain side, that poureth down its
double stream into the glen? Perdie! surely thou canst not be in love
at so unripe an age? Yet, of a truth, those mysterious symptoms of
abstraction and sorrow thou dost so often display, when thou art left
alone to thine own thoughts, would all persuade me that thou art.”
The page held down his head, blushed, and sighed deeply, but said
nothing.
“Is silence, then, confession with thee, Maurice?” demanded Hepborne.
The page wiped his streaming eyes, and raised them with a soft and
melancholy smile, till they met those of his master, when he again
sighed, and, dropping them with renewed blushes to the ground, “I am
indeed in love,” said the boy, “most unhappily in love, since I burn
with unrequited passion. I did indeed believe, vainly believe, that I
was beloved; but, alas! how cruelly was I deceived! I found that what I
had mistaken for the pure flame was but the wanton flashing of a light
and careless heart, that made no account of the pangs it inflicted on
mine that was sincere.”
The page’s eyes filled again, and he sighed as if his heart would have
burst. Sir Patrick Hepborne sighed too; for Maurice, whilst telling of
his unhappy love, had touched his own case most nearly.
“Poor boy,” said he kindly, and full of sympathy for the youth; “poor
boy, I pity thee. I do indeed most sincerely feel for thee, that thou
shouldst have already begun, at so early an age, to rue the smart of
unrequited or unhappy love. Trust me,” continued the knight sighing
deeply, “trust me, I know its bitterness too well not to feel for
thee.” And again he sighed heavily.
“Then thou too hast loved unhappily, Sir Knight?” inquired the page
earnestly.
“Ay, boy,” said Hepborne sadly, “loved!—nay, what do I say?—loved!—I
still love—love without hope. ’Tis a cruel destiny.”
“And hast thou never prospered in love?” asked Maurice; “hast thou
never fancied that thou hadst awakened the warm flame of love, and that
thou wert thyself an object adored?”
“Nay, boy,” said Hepborne, “thou inquirest too curiously. Yet will I
confess that I have had vanity enough to believe that I had excited
love, or something wearing its semblance; but then she that did shew it
was altogether heartless, and I valued the cold and deceitful beam but
as the glimmering march-fire.”
Maurice de Grey made no reply, but hung down his head in silence upon
his breast, and again relapsed into the dream he had been indulging
when Hepborne first roused him. The knight, too, ceased to have any
desire to prolong the conversation. His mind had laid hold of the end
of a chain of association, that gradually unfolded itself in a
succession of tender remembrances. He indulged himself by giving way to
them, and consequently he also dropped into a musing fit. Both were
disturbed by their savage guide, who, having finished his
unsophisticated cookery, now made signs to them to approach and eat.
Love, however fervent, cannot starve, but must give way to the vulgar
but irresistible claims of hunger. The day’s fatigue had been long,
they were faint for want, and the odour of the smoking hot steaks was
most inviting. They speedily obeyed the summons, therefore, and made a
very satisfactory meal. Maurice de Grey had no sooner satisfied the
cravings of nature, than, worn out by his exertions and overpowered by
sleep, he wrapped himself up in his mantle, and throwing himself on the
heather, under the projecting side of the huge rock, his senses were
instantly steeped in sweet oblivion.
Sir Patrick Hepborne regarded the youth with envy. His own thoughts did
not as yet admit of his yielding to the gentle influence of sleep. He
tried to divert them by watching the decline of the day, and following
the slow ascent of the shadows as they crept up the rugged faces of the
eastern precipices, eating away the light before them. A bright
rose-coloured glow rested for a time on the summits, tinging even their
glazed snows with its warm tint; but in a few minutes it also departed,
like the animating soul from the fair face of dying beauty, leaving
everything cold, and pale, and cheerless; and darkness came thickly
down upon the deep and gloomy glen. In the meantime the mountaineer had
been busying himself in gathering dry heath, and in carrying it under
the Shelter Stone, for the purpose of making beds for the knight and
the page.
While the guide was thus employed, Hepborne sat musing at the fire,
listlessly and almost unconsciously supplying it with fuel from time to
time, and gazing at the fragments of wood as they were gradually
consumed. His back was towards the entrance-passage of the place where
the mountaineer was occupied, and the page lay to his right hand, under
the shadow of the rock.
As Sir Patrick sat thus absorbed in thought, he suddenly received a
tremendous blow on his head, that partly stunned him, and almost
knocked him forwards into the flames. The weight and force of it was
such that, had he not had his steel cap on it, his brains must have
been knocked out. Before he could rise to defend himself, the blow was
repeated with a dreadful clang upon the metal, and he was brought down
upon his knees; but ere it fell a third time on him, a piercing shriek
arose, and a struggle ensued behind him. Having by this time gathered
his strength and senses sufficiently to turn round, he beheld the
horrible countenance of their savage guide glaring over him, his
eyeballs red from the reflection of the fire, his lips expanded, his
teeth set together, and a ponderous stone lifted in both hands, with
which he was essaying to fell him to the earth by a third blow. But his
arms were pinioned behind, and it was the feeble page who held them.
Hepborne scrambled to get to his feet, but, weakened by the blows he
had already received, his efforts to rise were vain. The murderous
ruffian, furious with disappointment, struggled hard, and at length,
seeing that he could not rid himself of the faithful Maurice whilst he
continued to hold the stone, he quickly dropped it, and, turning
fiercely round on the boy, groped for his dirk. Already was it half
unsheathed, when the gleam of a bright spear-head came flashing forth
from the obscurity on one side, and with the quickness of thought it
drank the life’s blood from the savage heart of the assassin. Down
rolled the monster upon the ground, his ferocious countenance illumined
by the light from the blazing wood. In the agony of death his teeth
ground against each other; his right hand, that still clenched the
handle of the dirk, drew it forth with convulsive grasp, and, raising
it as if for a last effort of destruction, brought it down with a force
that buried the whole length of its blade in the harmless earth.
Hepborne looked up to see from what friendly hand his preservation and
that of the courageous boy had so miraculously come, when to his
astonishment he beheld Duncan MacErchar standing before him.
“Och, oich!” cried the worthy Highlander. “Och, oich! what a
Providence!—what a mercy!—what a good lucks it was that she was brought
here!”
“A Providence indeed!” cried Hepborne, crossing himself, and offering
up a short but fervent ejaculation of gratitude to God; “it seems
indeed to have been a most marked interposition of Providence in our
favour. Yet am I not the less grateful to thee for being the blessed
instrument, in the hands of the Almighty, in saving not only my life,
but that of the generous noble boy yonder, who had so nearly sacrificed
his own in my defence. Maurice de Grey, come to mine arms; take the
poor thanks of thy grateful master for his safety, for to thy courage,
in the first place, his thanks are due. Trust me, boy, thou wilt one
day be a brave knight; and to make thee all that chivalry may require
of thee shall be mine earnest care.”
Whether it was that the boy’s stock of resolution had been expended in
his effort, or that he was deeply affected by his master’s
commendation, it is not easy to determine; but he shrank from the
knight’s embrace, and, bursting into tears, hurried within the Shelter
Stone.